'What for?'
'I took an early public stand against using the word "fore-person". You know, like injuries, the foreman. I thought it would be needlessly confusing, poetically uninspired, and – well, how can I put this? – stupid. Let's face it, I can't be trained. I'm sure I'm a menace on some level. Next it's the women's caucus, I'm sure.'
The preliminaries completed – they were allies again – Glitsky sat back comfortably. Drysdale actually had upholstered chairs in his office. 'I just wanted to stop by to tell you I've got two inspectors assigned to Chris Locke. I'm afraid with everything else I didn't jump on it as quickly as I could've.'
Drysdale stopped juggling, squared himself around in his chair, all attention now. 'You finding anything?'
Glitsky explained the little that Griffin had come up with, and then went over his plans for the evening – more interviews, more legwork. The talk wound down.
'I'm still having a hard time with it.'
Glitsky nodded. 'Yeah, I know.'
'He was ... he had a lot of flaws, Chris did. Everybody knows about the woman-thing ...' Even aside from his bombshell discovery of the morning about Locke's relationship with Elaine Wager, Glitsky was not so subliminally aware of Locke's many sexual conquests. 'But I think his heart was in the right place where the law was concerned. He understood the ones we could win, when he had to drop one. He didn't want to waste everybody's time.'
A eulogy on Chris Locke by Drysdale was going to be wasted on Glitsky, but he could listen politely if it made Drysdale feel better. Art had done the same for him enough times. The first months after Flo ...
'Even the tough calls,' Drysdale went on. 'Hell, Jerohm Reese. You think it didn't kill Chris to let that scumbag go? But what was he going to do? He had no witnesses. He wasn't going to get a conviction, so what was the point? Waste the people's time and money?'
'That was a tough call.' Glitsky at his most diplomatic. He really had not liked Locke at all. But the man had been a chameleon – to Drysdale he had remained the loyal friend, the good lawyer, the able administrator. The office had run smoothly, and that was what counted to Drysdale.
'Damn straight, and it wasn't the only one.'
Glitsky knew that, too. Locke hadn't been too bad as District Attorneys went – certainly he would not now be pulling the idiocy Alan Reston was attempting with Kevin Shea.
Drysdale was juggling the baseballs again, calming himself. Glitsky was about to get up and go when something else occurred to him, something he hadn't meant to discuss here, but Drysdale's mention of the light evidence on Jerohm Reese had triggered it. Drysdale had been the chief assistant district attorney for almost twenty-five years, since long before Chris Locke's first term. He would have been around. 'Art, you ever do any work on the Pacific Moon case? White collar? Maybe fifteen years ago?'
Again, the balls stopped. Drysdale's brow wrinkled in concentration. He prided himself on never forgetting a case. 'It go to trial?'
'I don't think so, but I believe it got talked about down here and then dropped. Not enough evidence.'
'The Pacific Moon?'
Glitsky nodded. 'Restaurant out on Balboa. Got hot for a while with white collar, then died.'
'Money laundering.' Drysdale had placed it.
'That's the one.'
'What about it?'
'Nothing. I don't know exactly. It's come up lately.'
Drysdale gave him a look. 'It's come up lately – that's a good answer.'
'The real answer is I just don't know, Art.' He took a beat, then realized who he was talking to. Once he'd brought it up, Drysdale would look over the old files, put out feelers, get it back into the grapevine on some level and Glitsky didn't want that. Better to be up front with him now. 'With Loretta Wager in town now, there's been some—'
'That's it! 'Art snapped his fingers. He had it now. 'Sure, I can't believe it took me this long. It's come up a couple of times with the elections.'
'Probably.'
'No probably – it has. People digging for dirt. You can imagine.'
'So you've reviewed it? I heard some figures kicked around that are ... provocative. Huge.'
'I'm sure you have,' Drysdale said. 'I remember it clearly now. The numbers were always getting wildly exaggerated.' He thought a minute longer. 'Because of the profile – black woman, U.S. senator – Chris took it himself. He was the original prosecutor assigned, I'm talking now back in prehistory. The case didn't have any legs then, doesn't now. That was another one, though,' he added enigmatically.
'Another what?'
'Another one of the tough calls for Locke.'
'What was tough about it?'
'Well, this is between us now, Abe, but Chris did some fancy steppin' getting his hands on that one.'
'He wanted the case?'
Drysdale nodded, remembering. 'It was mostly black people, the investors, although I believe Dana Wager, of course, was one of them. Anyway, Chris was new, wanted to prove he didn't have a color barrier. He badly wanted this indictment, make his bones against the brothers, prove he could be a DA for all the people. But believe me, I remember him coming to me about this indictment, asking my opinion, my help – but there was nothing to get it on.'
Glitsky let out the breath he'd been holding. 'I heard the figure of three million dollars.'
Drysdale just shook his head. 'My recollection, Abe, is that's not even in the ballpark. I don't think it was even one million back when Chris was looking at it. Somebody got lucky with an investment or something if I recall.. .'
'And it's not ongoing? Not anymore?'
'I haven't even sniffed it, Abe, and I think I would have. And then, of course,' Drysdale continued, getting back to his theme, 'what made it a tough call for Chris is that when he had to drop it, he had to take the flak for dropping it because it was mostly a black enterprise. And he couldn't very well come back out swinging, defending himself that he wanted to indict these people. Not if they hadn't done anything wrong, and it finally didn't look like they had.' He sighed. 'The world, huh, Abe?'
'The world,' Glitsky agreed.
Loretta was downtown in her City Hall office. It was nearly eight o'clock in Washington DC, Friday night, the end of the week. If deals were going to get cut, now was the time. They always said 'close of business,' meaning five o'clock, but in the Capitol the close of business lasted at least three hours. Nobody went home until everything that could be done was done. Still, she thought, checking her watch again, it should be about time.
She was confident. The reports she had gotten during the day – both from her own office and those of her senate colleagues – indicated that the president's chief of staff had been working and lobbying around the clock to facilitate the transfer of the Hunter's Point Naval Reservation by executive order to the Federal Parks Program, with the stipulation that the land be dedicated to Loretta's idea of a camp for underprivileged youth, and administered by an African-American.
Evidently (as Loretta had both hoped and expected), the president had seen it as she had – this was a monumental political opportunity, a no-lose situation that for maximum effect should be done immediately, as a symbol of the president's ongoing commitment to civil rights and in the interests of continued racial harmony. The telephone buzzed and she forced herself to wait through two full rings, picking up on the third. It was her secretary calling from one of the public phones at the Old Ebbett Grill, a few blocks from the White House.
'... and I think we can say that congratulations are in order. The president's going ahead with the order.'
'For sure?'
'He's scheduled the signature for noon tomorrow, our time. Nine o'clock out there. It ought to be ideal for you.'
'That is perfect,' Loretta said. She had spoken again to Alan Reston. He was confident that with the FBI's help they'd have Kevin Shea by then. That would de-fang Philip Mohandas and his march on City Hall, which Loretta knew stood a good chance of getting out of hand. And she didn't want that to
happen – not now, not when a real solution was so close.
With the apprehension of Kevin Shea and the timing of the executive order, she was sure things would calm down. The city would return to normal, or some semblance of it. And she would be at the crest of the wave of peace and harmony – a hero to the community at large, not to any racial segment within it. She had fought for – and won – concessions for her own people, but she had also proved again that she was more than willing to work within the existing white, predominantly male power structure. She was a pragmatist with ideals intact, she told herself.
'You see the president tomorrow, honey, you tell him it's Loretta Wager making him look so good. Nice and subtle, though, hear?'
'I hear you.'
'I know you do, sugar.'
And then there was Abe.
He stood leaning against the jamb, filling the doorway, half-smiling, the simple enjoyment of watching her. She'd been making notes on her projected press conference for the next day, hadn't even sensed his arrival.
'How do you stay so invisible?' he asked her.
'God! Oh, Abe!' Her hand went to her chest. 'You scared me to death.'
'We homicide inspectors are trained to silently stalk our prey. Is it a good time?' Meaning for them to be alone. He stepped into the room, looking a question at her, getting a nod, closing the door behind him. Barefoot as usual, she came around the desk into his arms.
'God,' she said again, holding him, 'how can I have missed you this much?'
'I know. It's pretty ridiculous, isn't it?'
'Totally.'
Eventually they came untangled. 'What do you mean, invisible?' she asked.
'I mean normal humans usually only see senators on television surrounded by whatever the technical term is for flunkies ...'
'Pages.'
'Okay, pages. Or at least secret service people.'
'We don't have that.'
'... or reporters of one kind or another. Somebody, anyway, at least. And here you sit all alone in your diddly little office ...'
'This is a nice office, Abe.'
'Well, yes, compared to some, like mine. But still, you're alone so much. It's just never been my fantasy of the power-broker life.'
'You think I'm a power broker?'
'I don't think you're anybody's page.'
She broke a small smile. 'No, I suppose that's right.' Boosting herself onto the desk, she sat facing him. 'You want to have a lot of other people around, is that it?'
He moved to her again, stood against the desk, between her legs. She was no taller against him than when she'd been standing. 'I just don't know how you do it.'
'I don't think that door locks.' She had her hands around his waist, looking up at him. 'Well, believe it or not, when Elaine called – when was it, Tuesday night – and this whole thing looked like it was going to blow up, I just bought myself a ticket and got on a commercial flight to San Francisco. I had to be out here, see if I could help. Sometimes you've got to be free to move. I thought this would be one of those times. And I'm kind of glad I did.' She squeezed him. 'Are you?'
He went to the door, checked that it did not, in fact, lock, then opened it and looked out in the hallway. 'There's nobody out there,' he said, crossing the office, picking up one of the chairs and placing it under the doorknob. Back to her. 'It's six o'clock. Place is probably empty.' She brought her feet to the floor, slid her hose off and lifted herself back onto the edge of the desk. 'We'd better hurry,' she said, pulling at his belt, bringing him to her.
'Can I borrow your telephone for thirty seconds?' He was already punching in numbers. She had moved the chair away from the doorway and was sitting in it.
'This is Glitsky,' he said after a short wait. 'You beeped me.' He listened for another moment, checked his watch. 'I can be there in an hour.' He pulled a pad around, wrote something on it, tore off the page and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. 'Good. See you then.'
'An hour?' Loretta asked.
Glitsky moved to the other chair and sat facing her. 'That was a friend of mine with news about Wes Farrell,' he said. 'Kevin Shea's attorney.'
He couldn't read her expression, though for a moment it seemed as though some of the warmth had left her face. 'I meant to ask,' she said.
'It's been a busy day, I meant to tell you.'
He told her about it – so much to do with Kevin Shea. The last time they'd discussed it – before they'd gone out to dinner last night – Glitsky said he'd been optimistic that he'd be able to apprehend Shea within hours. Now he told her of his difficulties with Reston, with Farrell, Rigby, the FBI.
When he finished, Loretta said, 'And you're saying you think Alan's not offering a deal on Shea's safety because of me?'
'Essentially that's it. How I see it.'
'Well, that's got to stop,' she said. 'I'm not out to get Kevin Shea. Abe, you know that. I've been pushing for his proper arrest since I got here.'
Glitsky nodded. 'I know that, Loretta, but meanwhile Wes Farrell offers to give him up – just like that – all he needs is some minimal guarantee from Alan Reston, and Reston won't do it. Then, for some reason, Farrell goes sideways about meeting up with me. Then Shea comes out with this videotape explaining his side of things, which never would have happened if Reston ... Did Elaine mention any of this to you?'
At the mention of her daughter's name Loretta clearly tensed. 'She told me a lot about... no, not this. Not specifically.' She paused. 'She told me you know.'
'Her and Locke?'
'And me and you.'
'I kept that vague. In the past tense,' he said.
'I'm afraid I didn't.'
A hollow of silence.
Then Glitsky: 'Well.' He blew out a breath.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But you can see ... we didn't talk too much about Kevin Shea.'
Glitsky stood up, paced the small room. He stopped by the window, looked out into the lengthening shadows. 'That phone call,' he began. 'My friend says he thinks he's got Farrell agreeing to talk to me again. If he does I'm going to need some assurance for Shea, which means Reston.'
'And you would like me to talk to Alan?'
'I think it might break the logjam, Loretta. If we could bring him in ... it would all be over.'
One leg curled under her, she sat back on the chair. 'Elaine did say there was some indication that Shea might not be ... that the case might be difficult to prove.'
'He's got himself a different version of the events, but that's not exactly unique among defendants. You've got to have a story.'
'Do you think – personally, now, Abe – do you think Kevin Shea's story is true?'
At the window, he turned. 'What are you really asking?'
'I'm at least in part asking how this is going to affect my daughter, Abe. I picked Kevin Shea as the symbol of white racism, and I believed it, but she's got to live with him. I mean, she's gone public, as a lot of us have, with condemning him.'
'I know. I tried to counsel her against that.'
'But she's already done it. What's she going to do about it now?'
The harsh tone – the note of panic. Glitsky went over to Loretta, down to one knee, his arm around her back. He pulled her to him. 'Hey. This is why we're talking, all right?'
She slumped into him. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'It's not you. I'm just so worried for my daughter. Are you telling me Shea really might not have done it?'
Glitsky nodded. There's some chance of that, yes.'
'And what will that do to Elaine, to her career?'
After a minute he replied, 'It'll be better than having it come out after he's been shot down by some overzealous FBI SWAT team.'
'I think that's a little extreme, Abe. It's not going to come to that—'
'Have you met Special Agent Simms?'
'No.'
'I wouldn't write it off until you have.'
Loretta shook her head. 'Abe, the FBI agents I know are professionals. They don't want firefights they can't explain or
justify.'
'That's my point, Loretta. I think Simms wants exactly that – a firefight she could plausibly deny. She'll just say that her information was that Shea was armed and dangerous. She had no choice. But the bottom line to her superiors is she's not afraid to pull the trigger. And believe me – I'm in law enforcement, I know – this is considered a good thing.'
Loretta still wasn't convinced. 'I just have a hard time believing that the FBI...'
'You ever read Chekhov?' At her blank expression he said 'Old Chekhov says you don't introduce a gun in the first act of a play unless you're going to use it in the third.'
'All right?'
"The FBI is here with marksmen. Sharpshooters. Believe it, they did not bring them for a dress rehearsal.'
'You can't think they're planning to kill Kevin Shea?'
'That's exactly what I think. While everybody has the perception he's still guilty as hell. That's why Alan Reston isn't going to offer any protection. He's setting up a scenario that he figures is going to protect you, Loretta. Maybe Elaine, too, but mostly you, I think.'
'Me?' The enormity of it apparently settling on her, she half-collapsed backward, molding to the chair. 'Because I made Shea the center of it?'
'That's right.'
'Oh Lord. I do have to call Alan.'
Unsteadily, she got up and walked to her desk, to the phone, pushed the faceplate. As she was waiting Glitsky reminded her not to mention his name, he'd been ordered off the case.
No one picked it up. 'He's not there. I'll try his home.' She pulled her own yellow pad around, flipped some pages and punched more numbers, leaving a message on the service that as soon as he got in, whatever time it was, Alan should call Loretta Wager. It was urgent. She left three numbers – one here at the office, two at her home.
'He'll call,' she said. 'I'll tell him.'
She came back to Abe and put her arms around him again. 'Thank you for talking to me.' Then, pushing away, 'You go see your friend. As soon as I hear from Alan, I'll call you.'
Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A Page 34